


All Of This For You

by Darby_Harper



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Electrocution, Flashbacks, Hate Crimes, Homophobia, Inspired by Video, M/M, Poisoning, Rammslash, Rough Sex, Serial Killers, stalkers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-03 02:32:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5273216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darby_Harper/pseuds/Darby_Harper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A serial killer is stalking Rammstein fans and the band tries to figure out why—and what the killer's motive is--- before it's too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Walk

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: _**Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual person is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person). All rights reserved**_
> 
>  
> 
> Dedicated to all of you out there who’ve read everything I’ve written. Even if you’ve never left a comment, I still appreciate you taking the time to read!

[](http://www.postermywall.com/index.php/poster/view/014937b12f471fe0573fadc319253fce) 

:::

Sam Nordstrom was your typical, late 40’s suburban type. Married once with no kids, a recent divorce had him back on the playing field, looking for love in all the wrong places most of the time. Too old to hang out in the Goth and metal clubs he’d grown up in, he’d turned to Internet dating with little success. Still, Sam was an optimist and he figured getting into shape would make him a bit more marketable. He started (discreetly) dying his dark brown hair to get rid of the sudden crop of grey hairs, traded his ‘geek’ glasses in for contact lenses, and had blown a good portion of his retirement fund on a whole new wardrobe, getting rid of his respectable but boring jeans and sweatshirts. No more frumpy oxford shirts and baggy trousers for work, oh no! He now sported trousers with creases so sharp they looked deadly, button down shirts in soft, expensive materials in shades of grey, blue and black. He took a weekend to clean up his office and make it more welcoming to others, leaving only one wall to show off his interests rather than the entire office. He added plants that would clear the air as well as soften the boring beige walls, and a couple of framed abstract prints that were soothing as well as interesting.

Now, he stood in his living room, his latest bit of equipment on the road to a new love life sitting proudly in front of the sliding glass doors that led to his tiny yard. It was the latest model of a top of the line treadmill that did everything short of make coffee and very, very expensive. So expensive that a technician from the company had come to his house to deliver and assemble the thing as not to void the warranty. From Sam’s point of view it hadn’t seemed all that difficult to set up but he wasn’t going to quibble and gave the technician a nice tip for his troubles. Once the smiling young man was gone, Sam gave the owner’s manual a quick look-over to make sure he understood all the bells and whistles the thing had onboard. He’d taken a long time looking over the various models of treadmill from this company online as well as at their local showroom, and had decided that when it came to getting back into his old fighting form, it was go big or go home. He patted one of the chrome handles, saying, “I’ll get to you this evening, my friend. Gotta set up a good work out playlist to break you in!”

And so, as soon as he was home from work, Sam pulled his iPod out of its pocket in his shiny new briefcase and attached it to his home stereo, cranking it just enough for the music to be inspiring but not so loud that the neighbors would come calling. He changed into the only pair of sweats and t-shirt he’d kept back from his wardrobe purge, hung a towel over the conveniently-provided bar at the side of the control panel, and stepped up onto the heavy rubber track. The track lurched when he hit the ‘start’ button, making him stumble and curse, so he stepped up onto the sides of the treadmill to regain his balance, grabbing the heavy side bars to keep from falling on his face.

The paramedics and firefighters that arrived at the house moments later said that it was a lucky thing that the house hadn’t burned down when poor Mister Nordstrom electrocuted himself on his treadmill. Whoever had set the thing up had somehow managed to wire the plug into an outlet that had once been reserved for a machine that pulled a heavy electrical load, like a dryer, and not the standard household outlet that had recently been installed on the opposite side of the room especially for the treadmill. The screams coming from his house had been brief but loud enough to alert his next door neighbors to something being amiss, and the sight they’d found upon looking through his sliding glass door had all four of them currently sitting near the ambulance, wrapped in emergency blankets and staring sightlessly at the ground.

When the police pulled up, the smell of ozone and burnt flesh had dissipated somewhat but was still strong enough to make the officers wrinkle their noses. One of the paramedics excused herself from taking care of the traumatized neighbors and came over to them, saying, “I thought you’d like to see the body before we moved it, Smith.”

Officer Bob Smith, a twenty year veteran of the force, looked over at the neighbors, then at the house. “What in the world happened here? Someone witness a squirrel commit suicide by power line?”

“No. You have to see this. It’s…odd,” the paramedic said, leading Smith and his partner, Jason Tyler, into the house. They followed her into the living room, noticing the framed posters and artwork on the walls with interest, and nearly ran the paramedic over when she stopped in the doorway. “I found something on the victim’s forehead when I was getting ready to bag him. I don’t think it was there before he was killed.”

Officer Tyler, who was a recent graduate of the police academy, leaned in (holding his breath, naturally) and shone a flashlight on the spot the paramedic was pointing to. Burned into the puffy, disfigured flesh was a symbol that he didn’t recognize at first. As he stood, one of the pictures on the wall caught his eye and he looked back at the victim, a frown furrowing his face. He turned to his partner and the paramedic, saying, “Bob, Miz Linsey, do you remember that band who came through town last month? I was on vacation but I think you were both working the show.”

Officer Smith rubbed his chin, looking over at Linsey as she took in the pictures and photos that ringed the walls. Her eye landed on the picture Officer Tyler had spotted and she said, “That logo. It’s the brand on his forehead.”

The older cop groaned, sensing hours of overtime in his future. “Jesus Christ on a raft, this has to be some kind of kinky sex thing gone bad. If the deceased is a fan of these guys, I can only wonder what he got into! I _hate_ sex crimes! What did I do in a past life to deserve this shit?”

“Well, I’m sure once we pick through this poor fellow’s personal life, we’ll find out if this is a sex crime or not,” Officer Tyler soothed, chivvying his partner and the paramedic out of the living room and back into the cleaner air outside. He threw one last look over his shoulder as they headed for the patrol car and their paperwork, seeing nothing but the blackened design in the man’s forehead. He was still seeing it in his mind’s eye when the crime scene unit arrived not long afterwards and late into that night.


	2. In Between Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If I'm not dragging you off to bed at inopportune times you’d better check to see if I’m dead,”

“Richard Zven Kruspe, if you don’t shove your pretty ass down the sofa and let me sit down I’m gonna kick you clean to next week! I’m tired, my feet hurt and… _ack!_ ”

Richard Kruspe, lead guitar player for Rammstein, looked down into his lover’s astonished face where he laid sprawled across his leather-clad lap and smiled. “You’re off your feet,” he purred, leaning in further to capture the man’s lips in a heated kiss. “And if you’re too tired, you could let me do all the work tonight.”

Christoph Schneider, the band’s drummer and Richard’s partner for the past couple of years, tried to wriggle out of the other man’s grasp but failed thanks to the belt loops on his jeans being caught tight in Richard’s long, strong fingers. “Damn you Reesh, I’m not in the mood for this! When are you _not_ wanting to drag me off to bed? I swear you’re worse than a hutch full of bunnies!”

“If I'm not dragging you off to bed at inopportune times you’d better check to see if I’m dead,” Richard replied, brushing several tendrils of curly hair from Schneider’s eyes. “And you should talk. What about last week when you locked me in our hotel room and wouldn’t let me out till right before showtime the next day? I thought I wasn’t going to be able to walk properly ever again!”

“Richard. I’m _exhausted_. The only reason I wasn’t drumming in my bare feet tonight was because it was fucking cold in that arena even with the pyro. Those stupid boots hurt and the replacements aren’t going to be here for a week. And having to stand for an hour and a half in them for a post-gig meet and greet? I’m surprised I could get the damn boots off, my feet were so swollen up.”

“So wear your high top Converse sneakers. They're black, they'll match what else you're wearing. Besides, I don't think 90% of the audience could give a shit as to what you're wearing.”

“They don’t go with the outfit, stupid!” Schneider growled, shoving Richard's hand off of his head. If looks could have killed, Richard would have been pushing up the daisies. Schneider didn't get mad often these days but when he did, it was spectacular. For Richard, his lover's irritation made his deep blue-green eyes darken even more, brought a blush to his cheeks that no cosmetic could replicate and made him even more irresistible than he already was. “Oh. My. God,” Richard laughed, throwing his head back to rest on the sofa. “Oh dear God, I’ve created a monster. You’ve gone from not giving a fuck about what you’re wearing to a bigger diva than me! That’s it, I’m over and done!”

Schneider tried to get up again and was pulled back into Richard’s arms. “Not funny,” he hissed. “Don’t you think trying to get in my pants is gonna make me less angry with you!”

“What did I do?” Richard replied, all innocence. “I’m sitting here trying to make you feel better. I give you kisses, I promise a nice, long, hard ride in bed later on and you’re sitting there grousing about your bloody boots. “

Schneider sighed, rolled his eyes heavenward and said, “What did I do to end up with a sex-crazed, overly hormonal lover I’ll never know. Oh, and let’s not forget arrogant, vain, and _oomph!!_ ”

Richard, growing tired of Schneider’s tirade, flipped them around on the sofa with a move that came from wrestling as a child and pinned the complaining man under him. “Shut _up_ , Chris. The more you complain the more I’m gonna kiss you and eventually that won’t work, so I’ll have to figure out another way, which means you’ll be a good boy and give me a blow job and that will…”

Schneider grabbed Richard by the hair and squashed their lips together, throwing one leg around his partner’s narrow hips and holding him tightly. Their kisses grew deeper and more heated, and they were both halfway to naked when a loud knock on their hotel room door stopped them cold. “It had better be important or whoever you are, you’re gonna die a slow, painful death!” Schneider yelled.

“Never yell at a man who has top shelf vodka and cheesecake,” came Paul Lander's voice, muffled by the heavy wood door. “I'm willing to share if _someone_ apologizes for yelling at me.”

Richard found himself dumped onto the floor as Schneider pushed him away and hurdled him in an attempt to get to the door before he did. Rammstein's other guitar player was leaning against the doorway, a sly smile on his gentle, somewhat elfin face. “Did I interrupt something?” he said, grey-blue eyes twinkling with amusement. Schneider grabbed Paul by the arm and dragged him inside the hotel room, saying, “Shut up and share the food or else. Vodka first, my feet are killing me.”

Paul snort-laughed and set the bottle and cake carrier on a table near the windows. “It's a good thing I know when you're kidding or I'd leave and take the goodies with me. And I _told_ you that I had a pair of boots you could borrow till yours arrived. So stop yelling.”

“And I told _you_ , Paul, that the problem with mine aren't the size it's how narrow they are!” Schneider muttered, pulling three shot glasses out of the mini-fridge that was set into the wall cabinet along with a huge plasma screen TV, Blu-Ray and DVD players, plus a video game console. Closing the door with a 'snap,' Schneider continued, “I apologize. I'm just overtired and bitchy. I love our fans but some of them just...argggh.”

“I take it you had to listen to a ten minute tirade about how being in a relationship with me is going to damn your immortal soul to Hell for all time?” Richard said, accepting his shot of vodka from Paul with a nod of thanks. “I heard part of it but by the time the jackass got to me, he'd gotten his ear chewed on by someone to shut up or else.”

“Oh, that wasn't the worst part,” Schneider growled, sitting down and curling his long legs underneath him, carefully balancing his own shot of vodka as he got comfortable. “It started out as a grown up conversation about my kit and the new cymbals Sabian sent me. Then just as I was finishing signing the bastard's poster, he went off at me. I mean, I expect this nastiness from other people but our fans? Here?”

“Ah, the United States. The land of the free as long as you agree with the status quo, look like the status quo and worship like the status quo,” Paul sighed, handing around the cheesecake before sitting down next to Richard. “Love to visit here but damn, I couldn't live here for anything. That you got back to Germany with as little brain damage as you have, Reesh, is a bloody miracle.”

“Well thank you, Paulie, I appreciate that,” Richard replied in a wry tone, saluting his long-time friend with a forkful of cheesecake. “The amount of hate people can have for each other never ceases to amaze me, though. Doesn't matter where you are, it seems like it gets worse and worse every day.”

Richard and Schneider’s relationship was a fairly new one; a long standing, close friendship of well over 20 years had slowly blossomed into something that everyone that knew the two men well thought would burn out within months. Their affair began as wild and hot as a brush fire with Richard recovering from his last girlfriend's decision that their relationship was deader than a door nail and Schneider reeling from a horrible breakup that had, unfortunately, run rampant through the German tabloids. The two men had met at a restaurant close to Richard's apartment in Berlin and they'd fallen into bed that same night to emerge several days later, covered in bruises and bite marks, but head over heels in lust. Their lead singer, Till Lindemann, had prophesied ruin and heartbreak but thankfully it hadn't come true. Lust had simmered down into love, and the two men were all but married now.

That they hadn't killed each other yet was a miracle, for both of them had tempers, both were workaholics and perfectionists, and they were both stubborn. But somehow it worked for them, and the band were as proud---as as protective---as anything they'd done as a band. Oliver Riedel, their bass player and Flake Lorenz, their keyboardist, had been their most vocal supporters as far as fan interactions went, and Till, who'd had to eat his words of gloom and doom, nearly came to blows with a crew member whose alcohol-fuled homophobia had come to the forefront loud and clear one night at a party. That Till hadn't annihilated the man was a miracle; however, his low-voiced, sixty second warning and then firing of the idiot was almost as bad.

Schneider’s sigh of resignation and disgust echoed through the room. He nibbled on one of the chocolate curls from the top of his slice of cheesecake and murmured, “At least we haven't had any death threats or protests outside the concert hall. I hate it when jackasses like that ruin an evening for everyone.”

“Eh, don't let them ruin your dessert, love,” Richard said, gently rubbing Schneider’s knee. Paul nodded and added, “We had a great show tonight, the audience was fabulous, and here we are with cheesecake. What more could we ask for?”

“For my stupid boots to get here ASAP,” Schneider grumbled, softening his complaint at the last moment with a wry smile. Richard and Paul laughed at him and they spent the rest of the evening talking of other things, forgetting that evening's dark cloud.

Late that night after Paul had bid them goodnight and left for his own room, Schneider lay curled around Richard, a possessive arm thrown over the other man's waist. He was nibbling at Richard's bare shoulder, interspersing nibbles with kisses, and feeling the other man's shudder as he did so. He could tell by Richard's erratic breathing that he was becoming more and more aroused by the moment despite his earlier complaints of being as tired as Schneider was. And Schneider wasn't far behind in his own need; his cock was beginning to press against the back of Richard's thighs and the urge to rub against him was beginning to wake.

“I want you,” Schneider whispered against his lover's shoulder. “I want you so very much.”

Richard pulled Schneider’s hand until it was wrapped around his cock. “Then take me,” he sighed. “But...you think you could be gentle tonight? I...after what I heard that prick say to you tonight, I want this to be slow and gentle. For both of us.”

Schneider knew exactly what Richard was feeling. He'd felt violated and hurt by the man's words and knowing how sensitive Richard was, the man might as well have subjected him to the same hate-filled tirade. “Yeah, I don't feel like tying you up or making you call me Master tonight either,” he murmured, a warm laugh coloring his voice. “Where's the lube, by the way? I think you packed it up in your stuff, didn't you?”

Richard stretched languorously and slid out of their embrace. “I think so. Let me have a pee first and I'll find it. Good thing you and I both bought the stuff, after the other day I know we used over half a bottle of lube.”

Schneider’s low laugh was dark and promising. “I think we can finish that bottle tonight with no problems. Hurry back, lover.”

Their lovemaking was indeed slow and gentle with only the merest hint of roughness and then only due to Schneider’s habit of nipping at Richard whenever he could. By the time they had enjoyed themselves to the fullest, it was late in the night and both of them were barely coherent enough to sketchily wash down before falling into bed and right off to sleep. Schneider was the first in bed; he made him and Richard a warm, soft nest of pillows and blankets then settled down in the middle, waiting for Richard to finish his cleaning up. He took care of turning the lights down and making sure the hotel room door was securely locked and once done, joined Schneider in their nest, cuddling the drummer close.

“Good night beloved, “ Schneider murmured, surrendering to sleep with sigh. Richard brushed a kiss across Schneider’s lips and whispered, “Night, _liebeling.”_


	3. Texas Flood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was the worst flood season Moira Blaine had seen in years. Suppressing a hearty sigh at the sight of the street in front of her house becoming a waterway, she sat back in her lawn chair on her front porch and glared at the water rushing by.

It was the worst flood season Moira Blaine had seen in years. Suppressing a hearty sigh at the sight of the street in front of her house becoming a waterway, she sat back in her lawn chair on her front porch and glared at the water rushing by. She was late to work already and from the looks of things, she wasn’t going to make it unless she magically turned her car into a speedboat. She’d taken her next door neighbor’s advice earlier that morning and driven her car up the street to a point where the road was higher than the storm sewers and parked it there, safe from harm. Her house was somewhat higher than the street but much more rain and she was going to have to put a claim in to her homeowner’s insurance. It cost her a pretty penny twice a year but after seeing the weather reports for the next five days, she was glad she’d bitten the bullet and bought the policy.

The rain seemed to slacken around noon, but not much. The street was no more flooded than it had been earlier, but there was no way Moira was going to leave her house. She’d called her office and apologized for not being able to come in and had been told not to worry, that her house and her safety were more important than a bunch of reports. “Besides,” her supervisor told her over a crackling land line, “if it keeps raining, our headquarters may just float away and those reports won’t mean anything.”

So, Moira had changed out of her work clothes and into jeans and a t-shirt, packing an overnight bag with some essentials in case she had to abandon her house. She put her most valued items in a waterproof box with wheels, making sure the lid was securely locked down before putting it next to her other bags. She then went back out on her porch to watch the water speed by, hoping that it wouldn’t raise any further. A couple of her neighbors joined her on their porches later that day, discussing the city’s lack of maintaining the storm drains, among other things, and by the time dinner rolled around, the rain had tapered off to a drizzle.

As she turned to go back into her house, Moira saw a city maintenance truck pull up to the curb in front of her house. A man leaned out the driver’s side window, hair plastered to his head and his uniform shirt absolutely soaked. “Ma’am? Could I bother you a moment?” he called.

Moira turned around and waved. “Sure, what’s wrong? I’m not sure I’m gonna be much help.”

“Well, see, there’s a storm drain just down the street that I need to pull the lid off of, but I need someone to stay in the truck and run the winch for me. It’s really simple, all push button and easy. I don’t mean to bother, but…”

“Not a problem!” Moira called, pushing her feet into a pair of rain boots and carefully splashing her way over to the Jeep. She couldn’t remember if she’d seen this particular city worker before, but as it was a small, very tightly knit community, she was sure they’d met and her memory was shot. She’d been working very hard at the courthouse the past month as she’d been off a couple months previous on vacation and was still in vacation mode, a perfectly good reason to forget things. Climbing up into the Jeep, she said, “Some weather we’ve had! I’ll bet you guys are keeping busy.”

The man grinned at her and said, “Oh yeah, we’ve been busy. This won’t take long, the lid is halfway off the drain now and I need to get to it before someone runs over it and wrecks their car. Thank you for helping.”

“Not a problem. By the way, have we met?” Moira asked, shaking the water out of her close-cropped curls. She wasn’t a big fan of short hair but the summers were hot and having less hair to take care of in the mornings when she was late to work was a blessing. The man gives her a quick look from under his fringe and says, “We might have. Oh look, there’s the drain. Give me a second and I’ll have you back home in a jiffy.”

::

A city maintenance crew was doing some post-storm drain maintenance five days later when they came upon a storm drain with a lid that was locked solidly down. The crew’s foreman looked at the lid, puzzled, and said, “I don’t remember us having to lock these lids down with all the bolts. Four of the six should be enough.”

One of the crewmen looked up from where he was searching through the truck’s tool box for a wrench big enough and strong enough to pry the thick, heavy bolts free of the lid. “We don’t usually. Stupid neighborhood kids were probably fucking with it. Here, let me work on that.”

As the crewman leaned over to set the wrench on the first bolt, a wave of stench filtered up through the vent holes. He jerked backwards with a grunt, swearing mightily. “What the fuck? Something must have gotten caught up in the storm and died down there!”

The foreman waved the retching crewmember away, taking the wrench from his hand as he did so. “Be glad my sense of smell is fucked. Let me do that.” He had the bolts off of the lid in no time, and flipping the lid off, peered down into the murky darkness to see what poor animal had lost its life. He stood back up again, moved slowly away from the drain and turned aside to throw up. One by one, the rest of the four man crew leaned over to take a look at what made their boss sick, and joined him in losing their lunch.

Curled up at the bottom of the dead-end drain was a woman in mud-splattered jeans and a sodden t-shirt, a dead bird clutched in her hands. Her head was tilted backwards, looking up into the sky, and etched on her forehead was something that might have been a cross. When she was pulled from the drain, the coroner estimated she had been dead five days, and her cause of death was from being locked into the drain and unable to climb free.

Moira’s neighbors were questioned by the police as to when they’d seen her last and who she might have been with. No one could give a concrete answer, just that they’d talked to her that afternoon and one neighbor remembered her talking to someone in a white Jeep but beyond that, there was nothing else they could add. The police added Moira’s death to their cold case files, never quite figuring out what had been cut into her forehead, only that it had been done before she had drowned.


	4. Never Tear Us Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Reesh, _what_ is wrong with you?”

Ollie was leaning against an amplifier road case watching Richard pace back and forth as they waited for the opening act to finish their set. Something had the usually excited-to-hit-the-stage guitar player wound tighter than a cheap watch for the past several days, but no one knew why. Even Schneider, who could be counted on most of the time to settle his beloved down quickly, was unable to do so and had been rooming with Till as not to be in the same room with Richard more than he had to be. Ollie hated to see his friends so stressed and anxious but if Richard wasn’t going to talk to anyone, especially Christoph, he doubted anyone else would get a word out of the man. With an inward sigh, Ollie reached out as Richard passed by him for the fifteenth time in less than 10 minutes and touched his arm. He was prepared for Richard to spin around and snap at him; he wasn't prepared for the look of sheer terror on his face.

“Reesh, _what_ is wrong with you?” Ollie whispered, pulling the man off to the side and out of traffic. “You bit Paul's head off for no reason earlier and you've chased Chris out of your bed. Your pacing around is getting on my last nerve. If you don't talk to me I'm going to have to hurt you.”

Richard looked around to make sure no one was close by and murmured, “I don't know. I just have this feeling that something bad is going to happen. I don't know what, why or when, but...go ahead and laugh, Ollie.” He rubbed his arms nervously, causing the red and black gauntlets he wore to wrinkle and shift. With an irritated growl, he pulled them back into place and grabbed his long-coat from a nearby hanger and jerked it on, frustration and rage in every move he made. Rolling his eyes heavenward and praying for patience, Ollie stepped in front of Richard and said, “Do you see me laughing, Richard? No, I'm not. I'm not dismissing your nerves, not a bit. All I'm saying is you need to settle down or I'm going to hand your ass to you on a platter.” He smacked Richard on the back of the head, saying “Go apologize to him, right now. And I'll be listening so you won't be able to say you apologized when you didn't.”

Richard turned on his heel to glare at Ollie as he rubbed his head. “Ow, that fucking hurt! All right, all right, I'll go apologize. You don't have to follow me around like my mother to make sure I do.” With a resigned sigh, Ollie waved him away and went to find his tech before he followed his friend and walloped him again for good measure.

::

Christoph had found an isolated, dark corner near the green room and was sitting in the darkness, mindlessly tapping out drum patterns on the soles of his hated boots. He stared off into nothingness, mind spinning with the latest argument he'd had with Richard. They'd been arguing over stupid things the past few days, and the argument they'd had two days previously that had angered Christoph so much that he'd grabbed his luggage and moved into Till's room was still fresh and raw. He still had no idea why Richard had been so furious and on edge; had it been 10 years earlier he'd have blamed it on his coke habit. When he'd gently suggested that Richard take a nap with him, the two of them simply cuddling and nothing further, he'd been screamed at, called names and told to fuck off.

“You don't fucking _listen_ , Chrissy!” Richard had yelled, using a nickname that Christoph hated more than anything. “I've been trying to tell you for days that something is really, really wrong and all you say is that I'm being paranoid and I'm not!”

“I _have_ been listening to you, you fucking drama queen!” Christoph had yelled back. “And when I ask you what it might be, you just throw up your fucking hands and stomp off. I can't help you if you don't talk to me! And I've only said you're paranoid once. ONCE, Richard!”

“If I knew what it was, I'd tell you, but I don't!” Richard snapped. He was almost nose to nose with Christoph, dark blue eyes blazing with anger and his fists balled so tight the tendons and ligaments stood out like cables. “Just...just leave me alone, okay? I'm so mad right now I might do something stupid and you're better off not being around me for a bit.”

Christoph had turned and stalked away, biting his lip so hard it almost bled. He shook from head to toe, forcing back tears of anger and betrayal. He wasn't going to shed a tear over Richard being a prick, no, not him. He'd gone to Till's room, slamming the door so hard it knocked a picture from the wall, and yanked a bottle of whiskey out of the mini-bar. By the time the news of his and Richard's argument filtered down to the rest of the band, he was passed out, drunk, curled in the middle of the spare bed, the comforter wrapped around him like a shroud. Till, finding Christoph in such a horrible state, managed to get him sober enough to tell him what had happened, and when he found Richard still brooding away in the hotel room he had shared with Christoph, he'd almost killed his long-time friend where he stood.

“Do you have any idea what you're doing to the man you love?” Till raged, pushing Richard across the living room and into a wall. “You're being a class-a dickhead. He's in my room right now so drunk he can't move, and by all that's holy you'd better hope he sobers up enough to do the show tonight or I am going to put your arrogant ass in the hospital! Do you understand me, Richard Kruspe? Or do I have to give you a little demonstration?”

Richard had stared at Till for a long, long time before speaking. “Yes. I understand you one hundred percent. And right now, I hate you so damn much, if we didn't have a history together as friends and as part of this band, I'd pack my shit up and leave. Please don't be anywhere I can see you for the rest of the night or I'll do exactly what I said. Fuck you, fuck Ramnstein.”

Stunned, Till rocked back on his heels as if Richard had slapped him. “What the....fuck, you don't mean that, Reesh.”

“Try me. Just fucking try me, _Dietrich Lindemann.”_

And with that, Richard had left Till standing in the middle of the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

::

“Schneider? You in here?”

Christoph sniffled and wiped his nose on one of the wrist braces he wore, hoping the person who had called his name hadn't seen him do so. “Uh, yeah, I am, Flake. Show time already?”

“No, we've still got twenty minutes. Has Richard apologized to you yet? Ollie was reading him up one wall and down the other when I came out of the green room,” Flake said, sitting down on his haunches next to Schneider. “You okay? Do you need anything, aspirin, a cricket bat with nails in it?”

Schneider tried to laugh but it stuck in his throat. “Don't tempt me, Flake. Right now I could beat Richard to death and laugh like a maniac doing it."

“Till had to talk Paul out of doing just that right before he ran into Ollie. I've never seen Paul so mad at anyone in his whole life. If this entire mess wasn't such a clusterfuck, seeing Paul literally hopping mad would be entertaining. Paul's locked himself in his dressing room and isn't going to come out till right before we have to go on stage." Schneider snorted at the mental image of Paul hopping up and down, scarlet faced and swearing at the top of his lungs.

“You didn't hear about what Reesh said to Till the other day, did you?” Flake asked, hoping he hadn't.

Christoph stopped tapping away on his boots and sighed. “No, and I'm afraid to ask. I take it wasn't bad enough for Till to murder him because the bastard's still walking.”

Flake sighed and pushed his sunglasses up enough to rub the bridge of his nose. “He told Till that if he didn't have the friendship they had, that if we all weren't friends and had such a history with Rammstein, he'd quit the band right now. Now, I believe he honestly didn't mean any of that and doesn't believe it. Do you have any idea what's chewing on his ass that's making him so mean to everyone?”

“Damn it Flake, if I knew I wouldn't be camped out in Till's hotel room and trying to figure out how fast I can get home to grab my shit out of our house and leave!” Christoph growled. “I swear if he's back on cocaine I'm going to kill him. I'm not letting him put me or this band through that hell ever again.”

“He's not. And before you say no, believe me, that was the first thing I thought of _and_ made sure of. No, this isn't like Richard at all,” Flake replied, laying a hand on the drummer's shoulder and sighed inwardly with relief when he didn't shrug it off. “If your idiot lover doesn't apologize to you and soon, _I'll_ have to hurt him. And I get the feeling if Ollie or Paul gets a hold of him first there won't be anything but hair and air left.”

At that comment, Schneider lost it and began half laughing, half crying. He leaned over and rested his head on Flake's shoulder, dropping his drumsticks to the floor with a clatter. “I can't go through someone else leaving me,” he whimpered. “I can't. He and I have too much history together and Flake, I don't know how to _fix_ this!”

“Maybe I can help?”

Flake and Schneider looked up at the sound of Richard's very soft, abashed voice coming from around the corner. He looked terrible despite the stage makeup, his eyes red-rimmed and lost, and his very posture speaking of someone who was bowed under a heavy, heavy burden. Flake stood up, slowly, and stalked over to Richard, never saying a word. Before anyone could blink, he slapped Richard as hard as he could, walking away shaking his hand and swearing under his breath. Shocked, Richard stood still, hand to his quickly reddening cheek, and watched their keyboard player stomp down the hallway.

“Say what you have to say, Kruspe, then go away,” Schneider murmured. “I can't stand to look at you right now.”

“Chris...Christoph, I'm so, so sorry,” Richard said, kneeling down next to him. “I know sorry's not enough and...I know I can't take back anything I said to you but I wish I could. I've been horrible to you, I've yelled at you and I don't know what else to say but sorry.”

Schneider looked up into Richard's bleary eyes and saw that his lover wasn't lying, he was honestly, absolutely sorry for what he'd said and done. “I don't know, Reesh, you've been awful to me and everyone else. Flake told me what you said to Till. Do you honestly want to quit the band and break us up?”

“Fuck no!” Richard yelled, grabbing Schneider and hauling him into his arms. “I don't know why I said that! Please, Chris, I never meant anything I said. I was mad and my big mouth got ahead of me.”

“I dunno if I can believe you right now. The last time you were like this you were coked out of your head almost 24-7 and you lied about a lot of things. Can you look me in the eye and say that you're not back on the blow? That your being an asshole to everyone is only because you've got a stick up your ass?”

Richard laid his hands on either side of Schneider's face and gazed deeply into the blue-green eyes he'd come to love so much. “I swear on everything I hold dear that I'm not doing coke. I've been an asshole because I'm _scared,_ Chris. The last time I was on edge like this was the day I got busted by the Stasi. I've never forgotten that fear and having it come back as hard as it has...sweetheart, I'm so, so _frightened_.”

“Reesh...I didn't know. I didn't know you were having a flashback. Why didn't you just say so?” Schneider asked, reaching up to carefully wipe away the single tear that tracked down Richard's face. “I'm not a therapist or a psychiatrist, but I _understand_. I told you the first night we spent together that I'd be there for you no matter what, forever. Even if we broke up, I'd still be your friend and I would still have your back. Did you forget that?”

“No. It's just... _libeling_ , I'm forty-seven years old and I still have to sleep with a night light on or I'll wake up screaming. I still have days where the world is so overwhelming, all I want to do is hide under the bed until the world ends. I hate it.”

“And you're ashamed.”

Richard said nothing. He looked away, blushing hard enough for Schneider to feel the warmth in his clammy hands. “Beloved, there's no need to be ashamed of any of that. I don't think any less of you and nobody else does. You're loved. _I_ love you. I always will. You can't hide all of that away for long, it'll hurt you so much in the end. You promised to never shut me out and I said the same,” Schneider murmured, leaning in to kiss Richard's pale lips. “So don't shut me out ever again. I mean it.”

When Till, Paul and Ollie found the two lovers they were wrapped around each other, talking quietly, foreheads pressed together and watery smiles on their faces. Till rapped his knuckles gently on the wall and said, “So, where's my apology, Reesh?”

He was half-knocked off his feet by Richard's enthusiastic hug and all but deafened by his babbled apologies. Paul found himself in the same situation, carefully patting his friend's back and reassuring that yes, all was forgiven and yes, he had express permission to kick Richard's ass to the Moon and back if he ever said anything so stupid again. When he got to Ollie, the taller man simply grinned and hugged him first. “You vain little asshole,” Ollie said, lifting Richard off his feet with his hug.

“Yeah, I know, I know. Where's Flake? I really don't want to get slapped again but if it'll make him believe that I'm honestly sorry, I'll gladly let him do it again,” Richard said.

“I'm not slapping you again, that hurt my hand,” Flake said dryly as he leaned against the wall. “Do I get a hug, too?”

Richard wiggled out of Ollie's grasp and squished Flake till he squeaked. “Okay, okay, I get it, you're sorry!” he gasped. “Please don't squish me too hard or you'll get to see my lunch again.”

“Ewww!!”

::

After the show, Schneider found himself waiting for Richard to finish his shower so they could join the rest of the band at a private, post-gig party at a nearby restaurant. He was idly paging through his e-mails on his phone when it chimed at him, telling him he had a waiting message from Richard. Curious, he clicked it open and found no text, just a link to a video on YouTube.

“What the...” he muttered, opening the link to see what in the world Richard had sent to him. He was famous for finding bizarre, sometimes mindbogglingly strange videos and tormenting everyone with them, and Schneider steeled himself for another of them. When the video began playing, he had to catch his breath and bite his tongue to keep from doing more than letting one broken sob free.

“You okay?” Paul said, hurrying out of the shower, clad only in a towel and dripping wet. “Schneider? Christoph? What's wrong?”

Holding his phone out so Paul could see the screen, Schneider clicked back to the beginning of the video. Paul grabbed the phone before he could drop it and when he saw the song lyrics posted in the comments section of the video, he had to sit down next to Schneider and hug him.

“Soppy bastard,” he sniffled. “And a bloody pop song at that!”

“Well, it's not like any of our stuff would be appropriate!” Schneider laughed, wiping tears from his eyes. “And it _is_ a lovely song.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The video: https://youtu.be/yyZU4iNRdsM
> 
> The lyrics:
> 
> Never Tear Us Apart"-INXS
> 
> Don't ask me  
> What you know is true  
> Don't have to tell you  
> I love your precious heart
> 
> I  
> I was standing  
> You were there  
> Two worlds collided  
> And they could never tear us apart
> 
> We could live  
> For a thousand years  
> But if I hurt you  
> I'd make wine from your tears
> 
> I told you  
> That we could fly  
> 'Cause we all have wings  
> But some of us don't know why
> 
> I  
> I was standing  
> You were there  
> Two worlds collided  
> And they could never ever tear us apart---
> 
> I [Don't ask me]  
> I was standing [You know it's true]  
> You were there [Worlds collided]  
> Two worlds collided  
> And they can never tear us apart...


	5. Burn For You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had been one of _those_ days for Tim Wayne.

It had been one of _those_ days for Tim Wayne. Not only had his rent check bounced higher than a basketball shot from a cannon, his old car was on its last legs. While he loathed his job as a programmer at a local IT company, it paid the bills. Grousing to himself while he was on hold with his bank, trying to find out why his check had bounced when he had more than enough money in the account to cover it, he scanned through the used car sales ads in the morning paper. He didn't want to part with his old Volvo as it had a lot of great memories attached to it, especially ones from earlier that year, but he was putting more money into it to keep it on the road almost every month and it was becoming more expensive to maintain.

He was so deep into his reading that he almost missed the operator coming back on the line to tell him that the bank had made a mistake and was going to straighten out the bounced check problem immediately. With a sigh and a polite thank you, he hung up and folded the paper away to continue reading at lunch. He would be lucky to make it to work only ten minutes late and since jobs were scarce in his area, he knew if he got fired there would be twenty other people ready to take his place. He started the car and was pleased that it turned over on the first try, then made a quick call to his boss to tell him that he would only be a few moments late due to car trouble. It went to voice mail, which made him happy; his boss checked his voice mail only once a day and the in the afternoon.

When he got to work, one of his neighbors in the “cubicle farm” called to him. “Tim? Good thing you got here when you did, the boss man is on the warpath. One of our clients fucked their servers to hell and none of the techs on call will answer their pagers or messages. Didn't you start out here in that department?”

Tim sighed down his nose and grimaced. “Yeah, I did. I take it the old man wants me to go over there and save his bacon?”

“Yup. And he said he'd ignore your being late this morning if you could get there in the next hour or so,” his neighbor said. “I know, I know, you went to school so you wouldn't have to crawl all over a messy server room but I'd do it. Who knows, it might get you an extra fifty cents on your next bonus.”

Tim pulled his windbreaker back on, scribbled a note to tape on his monitor to tell anyone who was looking for him where he was and thanked his neighbor. “If I'm gonna be buying another car I'm going to need all the extra time I can get. I'll call in when I get there and change my voice mail too.”

An hour later, Tim was standing in the middle of their client's server room, looking helplessly about at the masses of tangled cables, server racks that looked like they were being held together by spit and electrical tape, and a heating and cooling system that was on the fritz, making the room warmer than it should be for a room full of electrical and computer equipment. A frazzled secretary had been assigned to him to be his assistant but after a few moments of listening to the poor woman trying to explain what was wrong, he asked her to find someone who was more involved with the servers on a daily basis, and sat down on a rickety stool to wait. His phone chimed at him, telling him he had a phone message he hadn't gotten to and since he was going to be waiting a bit, clicked it open.

_“Tim:_

_Heard you were looking for a new car. There's a used car lot over on 6th Street and Flower Avenue that's having one of those bring your old car in and we'll give you so much towards a new or used car. I've dealt with them before and they're honest. Open till nine tonight if you're interested.”_

“Well, what do you know,” Tim mused to himself. He typed a quick thanks back to his co-worker and sent it, a smile crossing his face. “Maybe this day will turn out better than it started out to be.”

By the time he was finished for the day he'd unraveled most of the problems the client had with their server and talked them into a maintenance program with his company. His boss had given him permission to return the next day and complete the job, and he'd left that office with a lighter heart than when he'd gone in. He had more than enough time to drop by the car dealership before running some errands on his way home, so with the address of the car lot in his GPS, he made his way across town in a decent amount of time despite the heavy evening traffic.

The car lot was a very small one, almost in an old residential area. There were 10 cars on the lot of various makes and types, and one caught Tim’s eye right away. He pulled into the lot and slid out of his car, making sure to close the Volvo's door carefully as it had a habit of popping back open if you shut it too hard. He walked through the lot, taking his time to give each car a good looking over before he went to the one that had originally caught his eye. It was a pale blue, newer version of the Volvo he was driving, no body rust at all, and when he popped the hood, the engine was clean with all the hoses and belts tight and brand new. Shutting the hood, he looked at the sale paperwork taped to the driver’s side window and raised his eyebrows in surprise. The car was exactly in his price range, and with a bit of dickering, Tim knew he could lower the price further.

“Good evening, sir, can I help you?” said a man in a dark blue blazer and brown dress pants as he walked across the lot. “That’s a nice, nice car. An older lady brought it in to trade on a Mercedes Benz we had and I think she got the crap end of the deal. This car is much, much nicer.”

“Yes it is,” Tim replied, smoothing his hand over the hood. “I’d like to try this car out but I’ve got some errands to run. Is there a chance I could come in tomorrow and test drive it? I mean, can you hold it for me for about 24 hours?”

“I don’t see why not,” the salesman replied, a small smile crossing his plain face. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll pull the sales paperwork off of the window and put a note on it that you’re considering this car and that it’s not to be sold till after tomorrow. From the way you’re looking at it, I think you’ve already bought this pretty thing!”

Tim laughed and held his hand out for the other man to shake. “Awesome. What time do you open tomorrow?”

“Nine a.m. sharp. Ask for Boyd if you don’t see me right away,” the salesman replied, carefully pulling the sales paperwork from the car’s window. Nodding his head in the direction of Tim’s car, he said, “Interesting license plate holder.”

“Custom job. Paid a pretty penny for it but it was worth it. I’ll be here at nine on the dot, and thank you for holding the car for me!” Tim called over his shoulder as he made his way to his car. The salesman waved at him and went back into the tiny office, a spring in his step.

Tim fell in love with the blue car the moment he started its engine. It purred like a kitten and when he test drove it through the heavy morning traffic, he found he didn’t have to worry about the vehicle not having enough power to accelerate smoothly through traffic, nor make it up the long hill that was before the exit he used to get to work. The suspension was flexible as a snake, something his old car had long lost, and the air conditioner was cold enough to chill a beer on the dashboard. And unlike his old car, this one shifted gears without a complaint. By the time he’d driven the car back to the dealership, Tim had decided not to try and get the salesman to bring the price down any further; that he’d been willing to hold the car for Tim was worth the price.

“Well, what do you think?” the salesman asked as Tim pulled into the sales lot. “Is it what you’re looking for?”

“Oh wow, yes it is,” Tim said. “I’ll take it.”

“Good, good. I’ve got the paperwork started; were you wanting to finance it or…”

“Nope, I’ve got enough saved up for this baby plus the trade in value,” Tim laughed. “I cut my vacation short by a month so I could afford a better car and now I’m glad I did even though at the time I was pretty disappointed.”

“Well then, this should make up for it. Come with me and we’ll do you up right. Oh, while you’re filling out the parts of the papers that you have to deal with, would you like me to take your license plate holder off of the front of your car and put it on your new one?”

“Thank you so much! Yes, that would be great!” Tim said as he followed the salesman into the office. After showing Tim what parts of the paperwork needed his attention, the salesman excused himself with a temporary tag for the car and a screwdriver to change the plate holder from one car to the other. When he returned, Tim was removing the keys to his old car from their key ring and laid them on the scratched up top of the desk. Beaming brightly, the salesman handed Tim the keys for the new car and said, “Excellent! A few more “t’s” to cross and “I’s” to dot and you’ll be on your way!”

Tim was fairly bursting with happiness as he waved goodbye to the salesman. He’d been so nice in helping him move all of his belongings from the old car to the new, and had told Tim if he had any problems within the next week or so to give him a call. Tim drove off, envisioning how much money he would be saving as he wouldn’t be pouring money into fixing problems and driving a car with poor gas mileage. Looking at the milk crate full of bits and bobs from his old car, he decided to make a quick stop at his office to put the recyclables into the bin and head for home. He found a parking spot at the back of the building and pulled in, whistling happily to himself as he did.

The explosion torched the back of the building, set the nearby shrubbery and trees on fire, and caused the paint on the metal garbage and recycling bins to melt. By the time the fire department arrived, there was nothing left of the car save for the metallic parts that wouldn’t burn. As they put out the fire, one fireman saw something inside and yelled for the water to be turned off. He walked closer to the charred remains of the vehicle and swore.

“Better get the cops in here, there’s a body inside,” he yelled. As he turned away from the mess, a bright silver flash caught his eye. Bending down, he saw a heavy silver license plate holder still attached to the car, its finish unmarred by flame or water. Its design made him raise an eyebrow at its irony, for the main design was flames and water twisted together to form the frame. That eyebrow went higher when he saw the engraving boldly cut into the metal; what seemed to be a song lyric and what resembled a cross or the letter “t” merged with something else.

“I know that logo,” the fireman said, pushing his fire helmet back a little to rub at his forehead. “Be damned if I can remember whose logo it is.” With a sigh, he turned away from what had been a car and a person and walked back towards his crew, nodding respectfully at the police officers who passed him on their way to the scene.


	6. Freakshow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Clean up quick and meet in the green room. The cops are here and want to talk to all of you. I don’t know why, so don’t bitch at me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any mistakes with the German parts of the story are mine. If they're horribly wrong, please feel free to let me know. I really need to get back to my studies and not rely so much on Google Translate.

Schneider winced, thankful that he still had his in-ear monitors firmly shoved home. Even with their custom fit and padding, the shriek that came from the group of ladies in the front row could be heard over the din of the opening sound effects. “How in the hell can anyone scream that loud is beyond me!” he thought to himself. He looked to his right and saw Till rubbing at his ear, a wry smile on his face. Nodding in understanding, the singer mouthed, “Wouldn’t want to be next to or behind them tonight!”

“But that’s the kind you like!” Schneider yelled back, snickering when Till made a face at him and stuck out his tongue. “Keep it up drummer boy, keep it up!”

Schneider poked his tongue out in return just in time for the last bit of the special effects to end and Flake begin the first song of the set. Eerie music began to drift through the speakers, setting Schneider’s heart to hammering in his chest. A quick look to his left and he saw Richard peering over his shoulder, his Cheshire cat grin and twinkling eyes barely visible in the low lights. He winked and turned to yell something in Paul’s ear, making the other man snicker. Ollie’s bass began thundering above the delicate keyboard line and Schneider snapped to attention, losing himself in the music as the show began.

The band roared through the first half of the show, everything working as planned from the lights to the pyro effects. The band themselves were on point more so than they had been the past few shows, and by the time they hit the short intermission, Schneider was buzzing with adrenaline. He caught the towel his drum tech threw at him and scrubbed the sweat out of his hair, feeling the curls tighten from the humidity and moisture. Sliding out from behind his drum kit, Schneider found himself caught up in Till’s arms and swung around, the singer grinning wildly and making him squeak from surprise and being squished.

 _“Tillwhatthfuck?_ ” Schneider yelled, feet flailing and nearly missing the back of Flake’s knees. The keyboard player rolled his eyes and nimbly stepped out of the way. “I saw you making goo-eyes at your boyfriend at the beginning of the show!” Till laughed, setting Schneider down. “I swear you two are going to make me puke from sugar overload someday.”

“As you should, you asshole. After all _you_ were the one who said we were gonna implode within six weeks when Reesh and I got together,” Schneider retorted, dropping his soaking wet towel over the singer’s head. “Serves you right.”

“Seriously, though. I’ve never seen Richard so happy and content. I thought you two were done for a few weeks back. Have you two ever argued like that?” Till said, sitting down on a table and grabbing a bottle of water out of a nearby tub of ice at the same time he sent the towel over his head sailing for a hamper. He handed one to Schneider who nodded his thanks and then cheered as the towel hit the wall and slid neatly into the hamper.

“Not until then, no. He had a flashback, Till. When’s the last time he had one?” the drummer asked, taking a large swallow of his water. Till, who had downed his bottle in one go, pulled another from the ice and sat for a moment, eyes lost in thought. “It’s been…damn, I can’t remember. The last one I remember really clearly was right after he got divorced. He was staying over at my house and in the middle of the night, I hear him screaming his head off. Took me until right before the sun came up to get him settled down and even then I had to get him tipsy so he’d go back to sleep. It was fucking horrifying.”

“No shit,”Schneider replied. “I’ve known him how long and I still can’t get my head around how he’s not completely out of his mind from all that mess.”

“What mess?” Richard asked, coming out of the men’s room and shrugging out of his sleeveless shirt and using it to blot the back of his neck. “Nothing,” Schneider said, tossing him a bottle of water and giving him a thumb’s up when he neatly snatched it out of the air. “Better put that back on, the front row is going to implode as it is. Every time Till blinks, they scream and not just the ladies.”

Paul laughed at Schneider’s dry tone. “Tell me about it. I don’t think I’ll have hearing in my right ear for days. What is it? A full moon or something? First you and Reesh trying to keep us all awake this morning and break the bed, now the front row’s full of slavering, horny fans.”

“Oh shut up, Paul,” Richard said, playfully shoving him aside. “You’re just jealous because your wife’s not able to come over and phone sex doesn’t cut it.”

“Hey, hey, hey!” Paul yelled. “I’m not jealous!”

“Right. And I’m the Pope,” Richard said with a snort. He opened his mouth to tease Paul further when the various crew folk began frantically waving for them to get back to the stage. He stopped long enough to quickly kiss Schneider and whisper, “I’m going to eat you up tonight.”

“Promise?”

“Oh yes.”

::

Their plans were trashed, however. As they came off the stage, their tour manager, rather than his usual compliments and smiles, met the band with a grim expression and arms folded over his chest. The six men half-piled into each other, looking at him with wide eyes and peppering him with questions.

“Clean up quick and meet in the green room. The cops are here and want to talk to all of you. I don’t know why, so don’t bitch at me,” he said, glaring at the band. Till folded his arms and stared down at the man, saying with a voice that held more than a touch of a growl, “Local, state? Or did you ask?”

“Federal. FBI.”

“Mother of God,” OIlie said. He stepped back a pace and leaned against the nearby wall, staring off into space. Flake joined him, sunglasses on the top of his head and his face blank. Paul and Richard sat down on a spare amp, blinking as they stared at the floor, while Schneider stood next to Till, hands behind his back, chin high and a scowl on his face. “Did you ask them why they wanted to talk to us?” he said.

“Yes, but I can’t tell you. Do what I said, all right? All I can say is we’re not in trouble. Beyond that, not a thing.”

“Come on,” Schneider said, heading for the showers and gesturing for his bandmates to follow him. “Let’s get this over and done with. I’m starving and anyone who gets between and dinner is going to get hurt.”

Ten minutes later, Schneider wasn’t hungry anymore. His stomach was twisted with nerves and even sitting between Richard and Ollie didn’t do anything to settle him. Three agents, all men around their ages, all with military haircuts save for one who was as bald as Ollie, stood in front of the couch the six of them had been squeezed into. All dressed in black suits, the only difference the color of their ties (dark blue, maroon and deep green), the agents looked as grim as death, none of them betraying a thing. The bald man looked at their tour manager and said _“Brauchen wir einen Dolmetscher?”_

“Nope,” Till said in English, startling all three of the agents. “We all speak English and understand it well. Thought I’d get that out of the way.”

The agent who had originally spoken nodded at Till and said, “I’m sorry about that assumption, _Herr_ Lindemann. I’m Agent Cory. This is Agent White and Agent DeAth. Have any of you gotten strange fan mail or e-mails lately, anyone come to the shows that isn’t acting normally?”

Richard snorted. “You’ve seen our videos, you obviously understand our lyrics. And you’re asking if our fans are _normal?_ Love their hearts but if you’re a Rammstein fan you’ve got to be a bit off.”

“We understand that, _Herr_ Kruspe, but we’re talking about people who might be a little more…excitable…than the norm,” Agent DeAth said, his grey eyes fixing Richard with a gaze that he couldn’t look away from. “It is my understanding that there have been some incidents of people expressing their dislike of your relationship with _Herr_ Schneider. Vehemently.”

Schneider wiggled his hand out from where it was wedged between his and Richard's thighs and took his lover's hand, glaring at the agent with the expression all and sundry within the band and their fandom as “The Frau.” Anyone with sense would back down and away from Schneider when they saw that but the FBI agent didn’t flinch. Quirking his lips, he said, “Be easy, _Herr_ Schneider. Is it true, though?”

“We’ve had the usual, “Schneider replied, clenching his teeth. “There’s been a few of those fundamental church groups protesting our shows, couple of people at the meet and greets. They were dealt with.”

Flake, who had been deathly still and silent until now, said, “Stop beating around the bush. You’re here for something other than homophobic fans and stupid fundamentalists picketing our shows. Either ask us what you’ve come here to ask, or leave.”

Paul, who was sitting on Flake’s right, gasped at the same time Till smacked Flake on the arm and snapped. _“Willst du ins Gefängnis, zu gehen, Flake? Jesus Christus, glauben Sie, mehr mouthy sein könnte?”_

 _“Nich, wirklich. Aber das is falsch. Die federals zeigte sich nich nur um zu unterhalten. Sie sind hier, um etawas Grobßes,”_ Flake snapped back. Agent White, who had been standing silently, hands full of a large manila folder, pushed between the other two agents and dropped three large, glossy photographs on the table in front of the band. Paul picked one up, took one look at it and gagged, stumbling over the table and Till’s feet in an effort to get to the bathroom before he threw up on the floor. Till took the photos and gazed at them, one eyebrow raised but otherwise expressionless. The others, however, were in various stages of horror and shock. Richard had buried his head against a visibly nauseated Schneider’s shoulder, Ollie was white-faced, one hand over his mouth, and Flake was staring at the floor, hands gripping the table so hard the knuckles were pale.

“So, smart boys, what do you think? Think you’ve seen it all? You ought to have, with what you put in your videos,” the agent snapped. “These were people. Electrocuted. Drowned. Burned alive. And you know what we found at every scene?”

“Our logo,” Paul croaked as he made a wavery path back to the couch. He slid down in his original spot, pale, shaking and sore. “That’s our logo.”


	7. Kiss Me Deadly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No, no, honey, don't touch that. That's poison,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Frankieteardr0p for catching my mistake in forgetting the link to Wikipedia!

The warm afternoon breeze streamed through Bob Worley's backyard, setting the leaves on the trees to nodding. He sat back in his lawn chair with a sigh of relief, a cold bottle of beer resting in the chair's holder. He was on a well-deserved two week break from his teaching job at the nearby university; as one of the youngest, most recent tenured professors, he'd fought hard for the position and was very glad for the break. He tipped back a good portion of his beer with a smile, saying to himself, “Two weeks with nothing more to do than eat, drink and watch the flowers grow.”

Bob's specialty was botany and his garden reflected it. From roses that looked as if they'd been pulled from a gardening catalog to plants native to his area, Bob cared for each and every one as if they were the only plant growing in his garden. He'd had several of his classes in the past over to study the plants and was quite pleased that even the most jaded student enjoyed the variety. He'd been recently gifted with several plants he hadn't been aware of being available to the common gardener, one of them a plant with blooms of a gorgeous shade of yellow that hung down in long, upside down bells. He'd carefully put the plant in its own container with a tiny marker to remind him to treat the plant with especial care.

“Going to need to keep you away from the kids,” he said, tapping the plant gently with a pencil. “Hell, from everyone.”

He was finishing his clean up of the yard when the front doorbell rang. He tugged his gardening gloves off and left his muddy overshoes at the back door, calling out “I'll be right there!” as he trotted through the house. He pulled the door open and smiled broadly at the package delivery driver, who handed him a heavy package covered in stamps and paperwork. “I've been waiting for this!” he cheered, signing the man's clipboard with a flourish. “All the way from Germany.”

“Looks like it's come a long way!” the man said, touching the brim of his ball cap. “Have a nice day sir!”

Bob bade the man goodbye and shut the door, carrying the package into the kitchen and carefully putting the package on the table. He pulled the open tab on the box open slowly, anticipation making him shiver. A pair of large paperback books slid out of the box, wrapped in a thin layer of bubble wrap. He unwrapped them, smiling down at the cover, and took one outside with him. Settling back into his seat, he opened the book, a smile breaking out on his face. As he paged through it, enjoying the rhythm and flow of the words, he was interrupted by the doorbell ringing again. Frowning, he laid the book aside and went to answer the door again, finding the delivery driver at the door looking ashamed.

“I'm so sorry, sir, but I forgot to have you sign this import paperwork,” the man said. He held out his clipboard again, a pen clamped at the top. Bob pulled the pen free and hissed when a sharp edge tore a gouge in his finger. With a hiss, he yanked his hand free, sticking the finger in his mouth to suckle the blood off. The young man's eyes were horrified; he plucked the clipboard from his hands with a “Oh my goodness, sir! I am so sorry! I didn't know there was a sharp edge on that!”

Bob shook his head, saying, “Not a problem. I get slashed and stuck all the time, what with having a garden.” He took the paperwork the young man gave him and went back inside, mind already on the book he'd left behind. Once back in his chair, he laid the paperwork aside and went back to the book, forgetting the cut in his finger.

Late that afternoon, Bob began to feel somewhat nauseated and dizzy. Putting it down to too much beer and sun, he closed the book and made his way back into the house. Sighing, he stretched out on his couch, closing his eyes against the sick feeling that flooded his senses. His fingers began to tingle strangely, while numbness spread through his limbs. “Damn, that beer was a bit strong,” he murmured.

Blackness covered him like a blanket...then the pain set in.

Bob's funeral, a week later, was very well attended. His sister and brother-in-law, still in shock that such a healthy man could die so suddenly of a heart attack, were sitting in his garden, staring listlessly at the gorgeous flowers. Their year-old daughter, seeing the pretty yellow plant sitting apart from the rest of the garden, began toddling towards it, babbling happily. Her mother swooped in at the last second, pulling her away from the plant.

“No, no, honey, don't touch that. That's poison,” she said. Turning to her husband, she sighed, “As pretty as that plant is, we'll have to make sure it goes somewhere safe. Maybe someone at the university will want it. Bob would want it taken care of.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, this plant and all the plants in its family are **nothing** to mess with. As much as I love gothy and spooky things there's no way in hell I'd have one in my garden.
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aconitum


	8. Whisper To A Scream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What, are you playing good cop-bad cop with the stupid Germans now?”

 Agent Cory pulled a metal chair over to the other side of the table, gathering up the crime scene photos and glaring at Agent White. He handed them back with a growled, “Wait outside. And don't argue.” The younger man huffed but said nothing else, turning on his heel and all but stomping out of the room. Once he was gone, Agent DeAth found his own chair and sat down next to the remaining man with an apologetic, “I'm sorry about that. He's only been in the field six months and hasn't quite gotten used to seeing cases like these outside of a lecture hall. He shouldn't have shown you those photos; at least not the full ones.”

Till met the man's eyes, his own sea-glass green eyes hooded. Anyone who knew Till could see the anger simmering in his veins even though his face was all but expressionless. “That was a nasty bit of work on his part. What, are you playing good cop-bad cop with the stupid Germans now?”

Agent Cory sighed, passed a work-worn hand across his bald scalp and shook his head. “I apologize; I'm the senior field officer and I should have said something. Look, these three people are dead, all of them with your band's logo somewhere on their person, and the local police are going nuts trying to figure out why. We don't want to say it's a serial killer but if it walks like a duck...”

“So you showed up here, had one of your junior agents throw pictures at us that you knew would freak us all out and expect us to think you're _sorry?_ ” snapped Richard, clearly at the end of his patience. “Agent Cory, why didn't you go through our management company and our lawyers first?”

“We already did,” interjected Agent DeAth. “They gave us permission to talk to you six. Didn't your tour manager say anything?”

“No, and I get the feeling we're going to have a very long, very heated discussion as soon as we're done here,” muttered Ollie, whose own temper was on the hairy edge of snapping. “Okay. Let's pretend that all we know is three people were murdered and our band logo was cut or burned into their skin. We never saw any photos. Your bosses think we might know something that will help your agency catch whoever it is. Am I right so far?”

Agent DeAth nodded. “Please believe me when I say this isn't a witch hunt. I've read all about the stuff your band was arrested for, all the things that got you banned all over the States. None of that has any bearing on why we're here. Whoever this is might come after any of you next. And we've every reason to think that this person isn't done killing.”

Flake was gnawing on one of his fingers, bright blue eyes trained on his boots. “Do they...the victims have anything in common?” he asked without looking up. “Other than our logo, that is.”

“Not that we've found out yet,” Agent Cory replied. “We wouldn't have even known the first victim was a fan had one of the police officers on the scene recognized what was left of the logo from the framed photographs the victim had on their wall. The third victim had a customized licence plate frame with “ _Gott wei_ _ß ich will kein Engel sein_ ” engraved on the metal. That's from one of your songs. “God knows I don't want to be an angel,” am I right?”

“Engel,” Schneider said, voice husky and soft. “It's one of the fan favorites.”

The band sat in silence for a moment, unable to think of anything to say to the two agents. Finally, Agent DeAth said, “There's an official fan club for Rammstein and your side projects. Is there any way we can get onto the site that only certain people have access to? And maybe a mailing list if there's one?”

“Talk to management,” Till sighed, rubbing his eyes. “I think we do but that's it. We used to do stuff for the official site but it's been forever. I have no idea what it looks like anymore.”

“Excuse us for a moment,” Agent Cory said, gesturing for the other agent to follow him out of the green room. The second the door closed, Till was on his feet and stalking over to the corner where their tour manager had stashed himself and grabbed the man by the front of his shirt. “You fucker, you have five seconds to tell us why you thought it was a good idea not to tell us that management was going to put these three...persons...on our asses.”

The skinny man, to his credit, didn't try to come up with an excuse. He glared at Till and snapped, “I made that decision because I know these kinds of people. I grew up here in the States, if you remember. I know how the police here think, especially the federal ones. If they thought for a second that I'd given you guys some kind of instructions to lie to them or whatever, we'd all be in jail right now. Trust me on this, Till, and put me down. I hear them coming back.”

“This isn't over,” Till hissed, setting the manager back on his feet. Turning, he rejoined the band on the couch, visibly struggling to get himself back in control before the agents came back in the room. All three of them were looking at the band with unreadable expressions, then Agent DeAth said softly, “There's been another murder.”

::

The band didn't find out till a week later what had happened; the three FBI agents had hurriedly offered their apologies for taking up their time and causing trouble and had left before anyone had a chance to say anything to them. Their tour manager, however, got the full brunt of the band's frustration and anger, and had they not been halfway through the tour, he would have been sent packing. He'd wisely stayed out of their way since, choosing to closet himself in the production office and communicating through his assistants.

Paul was sitting next to Richard on the stage one afternoon, watching Till discussing something with the head of the pyro crew. Schneider, Ollie and Flake were off somewhere, presumably looking for lunch when one of the tour assistants came over to Till, handed him a piece of paper and walked away as fast as he'd come. Till looked at the paper he'd been handed and without a word to the man he'd been talking to, turned and hurried over to Richard and Paul. “Do you know where everyone else is?” he said in a low, shaking voice.

“No, but I can find 'em,” Paul said, hauling himself to his feet. Till stopped him by laying his hand on Paul's shoulder and said, “Meet Reesh and I in my dressing room when you find them. This is...not good.”

“What is it, Till?” Richard said, trying to see what was on the paper that Till had crushed in his hand.

“Can you wait until we're together? I don't want to repeat myself and I'd rather that the fewer ears that hear this the better,” Till replied, biting his lip. Richard sighed and curbed his impatience, following the singer off the stage and into his dressing room. Paul returned about five minutes with the other three band members in tow, closing the door behind him. Once everyone was seated, Till said softly, “One of the people in the production office overheard that the FBI is on their way back to talk to us again, that the last murder victim was found in the bottom of an old therapy pool in an abandoned mental hospital with six steel stakes driven through her heart. Our logo was branded into her face and carved into her chest.”

“Shit,” Richard groaned, falling back into the sofa he was sharing with Ollie. “I _told_ you guys something bad was going to happen and I was right. What does the FBI think we can do for them? It's not like we can figure out what this sick bastard is doing any better than they can.”

Ollie sat up straight suddenly as if he'd been stuck with a pin. “What cities were the victims found in?” he asked. Flake pulled his mobile out of his pocket, pulled up their tour itinerary and paged through it quickly. “Let's see...Boston, Dallas, Chicago and Denver. Where was the latest one from, Till?”

“Cleveland,” Till replied. “Ollie, why do you need to know?”

“We played those cities a month before those people were murdered,” Ollie said. “There's roughly a month in between the murders as well. Whoever is doing this is following us.”

“Where's our next show?” Paul said, sitting down next to Ollie. “And when?”

“Three days from now, in Pittsburgh,” Flake said, his mouth set in a tight line. Placing his mobile down on a nearby table, he dropped his face into his hands and swore quietly. A knock on the door startled all six men badly; only Till was able to keep his composure and answer the door. Agent DeAth was alone, dressed simply this time in jeans, a white polo shirt and a dark blue windbreaker over top. Nodding at Till, he said, “It's just me this time. I take it the word finally filtered down as to what happened to the last victim.”

Ollie stood up and picked Flake's mobile from the table he'd put it on. “All of the people who have been murdered were in cities we played in the month before. We're being followed, and our next show is in three days, in Pittsburgh.” He held the mobile out so the man could see it; with a look to Flake to see if it was all right to use, paged through the itinerary. Handing it back to Flake, Agent DeAth said, “I thought so. I've got something I was chewing over on my flight here---all of the victims are fans of yours. I've looked at everything on their lives, their jobs, and the only common denominator is that they're Rammstein fans. Add that to what you've just showed me, _Herr_ Riedel, and I think I'm starting to see what this person is doing. But how is he finding these people? It's not random chance, believe me.”

“I have an idea,” Schneider said. “Did you look to see if they had Facebook or some other kind of social account? Maybe he's...oh my God, I know what he's doing! There's a sign up sheet that the merchandise vendors have up for people to sign up for e-mailings for the bands they sell merchandise for. And I'll bet you a hundred bucks that they use Facebook to advertise where they're going to be and what they're selling.”

“He's finding his victims through their Facebook accounts!” Agent DeAth crowed. “That's brilliant! Everything you gentlemen have come up with fits with what I've been theorizing the entire time! But the ways he's killing them I'm still not seeing it.”

Richard tipped his head to the side, deep in thought. “The first victim died by...electrocution, right?” When the agent nodded, he continued, “The second one was drowned and found with a dead bird in her hands. Number three was killed when his car blew up, the next one was stabbed to death.”

“There was one before the stabbing,” DeAth said. “I didn't find out about that till this morning. They'd been poisoned by a plant from their own garden; monkshood, I think.”

“Did you say monkshood?” Till asked. When DeAth nodded, he said, “Do you know what else it's called?”

“Not off the top of my head.”

“Wolfs-bane,” Till said, a slight tremor shaking his large frame. He leaned against a table, swept the room with a gaze that was unfocused and said, “I know what the killer is doing. He's basing his kills on our videos.”

A collective “What?” echoed through the room. Till's gaze refocused and he explained, “The first murder, death by treadmill. Electrocution. The video for “Ich Tu Dir Weh _”_ has a bit where it looks like Flake's getting electrocuted while he's walking on his treadmill. The second one's “Mutter.” I got locked away in a cage underground and at one point I had a dead bird in my hands. The third one, blown up in a car? “Du Hast.” The poisoning? With wolfs-bane?”

“The remake of “Du Riecht so gut!” Paul yelled. “We were supposed to be werewolves!”

Agent DeAth, who'd been taking notes as fast as he could write, said, “I follow you. This last one, they're basing it on...damn it, I can't remember the name! Something about “Come little children...”

“Mein Hertz brent,” Richard said. “ We shot the all the video for it in this old sanitarium and there's a part where Till's lying at the bottom of what used to be a pool or a fountain and there's six metal sticks shoved into his chest.”

“The end-pins from cellos,” Flake clarified. “If you've seen the video you know what we're talking about.”

“But there's no rhyme or reason to any of this,” Agent DeAth muttered to himself as he studied his notes. “I'll take these back to my hotel and poke about with them, see if I can find anything. I thank you all for your help.”

::

Despite the uproar of the afternoon, the show that evening went off quite well. Thankfully, there was no meet and greet after the show, so the band were able to head back to their hotel earlier than usual. While Paul, Till and Ollie opted to spend some time in the bar downstairs, Flake excused himself for the night, and Richard and Schneider headed to their hotel room. Once inside, Schneider trapped Richard against the door, pawing at his clothes with cold, shaking hands, lips pressed so tightly against his that Richard was afraid his teeth would crack. He let Schneider tug his clothes off and shove him across the room, nipping and clawing at his skin with something close to rage. Knowing his lover as he did, the anger and frustration wasn't aimed at him, but at the events and people that were causing all of them so much stress and strain.

“Get on the bed,” Schneider said in a rough, hard voice. “I want to play rough tonight but I won't if you say no.”

Richard lay back on the bed, swallowing his nervousness and slight fear at the half-crazed look in Schneider's beautiful eyes. “Safe word first,” he said. “I'll play rough too but not without that.”

“Button,” Schneider said, stripping off his clothes so quickly he tore the hem of his t-shirt in his haste. Richard nodded in agreement, rolling over to dig the lube out of his jump bag and laying it on the bedside table. When he turned back around, Schneider was holding a length of black, silken rope, his eyes burning. They didn't indulge much in rope play but when they did, the sex left them exhausted and sore for days. Schneider handed the rope to Richard, knelt by the bed and whispered, “I put myself in your hands, Master.”

The early morning light that peeked through a gap in the bedroom curtains showed the lovers sprawled across a bed that looked as if a war had been fought in it. Which in a way it had, the combatants using teeth, hands, lengths of rope and their own bodies to fight. Their bodies were covered with cuts, abrasions and bruises that thankfully would be hidden by their clothes and be relatively quick to heal. The mattress was askew, the sheets wet with sweat, semen, lube and spots of scarlet blood, and a pile of soaking wet towels lay nearby. The rope had been wiped clean and put away, the lovers had cleaned themselves up, and the air no longer crackled with tension and anger.

“Good thing we're driving to the next gig and we have a day before the next show, I don't think I'm going to be able to sit down properly,” Schneider mumbled, his face buried in a pillow and one arm wrapped around Richard's waist. “And walking is going to be a lot of fun too.”

“I didn't hit you too hard, did I?” Richard said. “You didn't safe word out till the very end and I was scared I'd gone too far and hurt you.”

“I should be asking you that question. You've got one hell of a bruise on your shoulder; I didn't mean to bite you so hard,” Schneider replied, moving about so he could look Richard in the face. “I have no idea why I was so angry last night.”

“You were scared and I don't blame you. Bad enough that there's some psychopath killing innocent people for the only reason they're our fans, but that he might be coming for us? You _needed_ for us to half destroy the room and bed,” Richard replied, smoothing his lover's hair from his face. “We're safe, okay? Trust me?”

Schneider's reply was a soft snore, which made Richard smile. He slid from beneath his lover's arm and pulled the bedclothes from the spare bed, wrapping them up in a cocoon of warmth and comfort. Setting the alarm on his mobile for one in the afternoon, Richard snuggled back up to Schneider and drifted off to sleep.


	9. Welcome To The Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I will see You soon. I will fall upon my knees and offer praises to you, abase myself in Your Presence.”_

“ _My glorious, furious Gods:_

_I have offered sacrifices to You that you may see my glory and what I have become. Your videos and songs speak to me on a level that no others can or will ever touch. I have no need for material reward, just Your acknowledgment of my talents and belief in You. I would offer more sacrifices to You but I must stop for a time as those who would imprison me for my beliefs are growing too close for comfort._

_I will see You soon. I will fall upon my knees and offer praises to you, abase myself in Your Presence.”_

Richard dropped the badly-crumpled piece of paper onto the table that the band was gathered around. Their tour bus rocked gently back and forth as it sped down the interstate through the night, half-lulling them to sleep. The note had been shoved into his hand by one of their tour manager’s assistants with a sketchy explanation as to where it had come from. Richard had tucked the paper away in the pocket of his jeans, too busy in getting himself on the bus to read the note. He’d been leaning over to hand something to Schneider when the paper had crackled in his pocket, reminding him that he’d meant to see what it was. The handwriting was almost illegible, written on cheap paper that made the pen the person had used bleed badly, and it had taken him well over a minute to decipher what was written. Once the meaning of the note had set in, he’d called the rest of the band into the living area of the bus and read the note aloud.

“Where did this come from?” Flake asked, gingerly picking the paper up between thumb and forefinger as if it were tainted. He scanned it quickly and laid it back on the table with a grimace.

“It was in a pile of mail delivered to the hotel we stayed at on Monday,” Richard replied, placing a salt shaker over the offending scrap of paper to keep it from moving. “The manager at that hotel sent it overnight mail to last night’s gig but our idiot of a tour manager didn’t open the envelope till late last night. The runner I talked to said he’d called one of the FBI agents we’d talked to and they asked that he send the original on to them. This is a copy of the note; we weren’t supposed to see this.”

“Well, how _nice_ of our oh-so-concerned tour manager,” Till sniped, swallowing down the last of the beer he’d been nursing. “Leave us in the dark some more and hope that no one else ends up murdered.”

Schneider leaned over and rested his head against Paul’s shoulder with a sigh. “Yeah, like one of us. It sounds like he thinks of us as gods of some kind, what’s to keep him from deciding we’d make better victims than the people he’s killed already?”

Ollie stretched and stood up from his seat near the window and yawned. “I don’t know about the rest of you but I’m falling asleep sitting up. Come on, we can worry about this in the morning.”

Late in the night, Richard woke to feeling Schneider trembling in his sleep. He laid a hand on his lover’s forehead and felt the heat of a migraine burning under his hand. Luckily, he was sleeping on the outside edge of their bunk, so he was able to slip out of bed without waking Schneider and hurry to the tiny refrigerator in the bus’s minute kitchen. He pulled a flexible ice pack out of the freezer, grabbed a bottle of water and hurried back, snagging Schneider’s migraine medicine out of his backpack where it was shoved next to his own near the big couch in the living area. By the time he returned, Schneider was awake but terribly groggy and wincing against the tiny amount of light that came from the strip of safety lights that ran the length of the bus’s ceiling and floor.

“Here, lovey,” Richard whispered, handing Schneider two of the tablets and the water. Swallowing them quickly, he grimaced at their bitter taste and said, “Thanks. Sorry I woke you.”

“Not a problem. Lie down and I’ll put this ice pack on your head,” Richard said softly. Once Schneider was back in his spot, he carefully laid the flexible ice pack across the drummer’s aching forehead and tucked him back in. “Do you want me to sleep in the spare bunk?” he asked.

“No, please stay, Reesh,” Schneider whispered. “It helps me deal with the pain when you’re here.” Richard complied, moving as slowly as he could as not to jostle his pain-racked lover. Schneider curled up into his arms, obviously still hurting for he shuddered, hard, every few moments and bit his lip to keep from whimpering. “Bad one,” he said.

“I can tell. You had a fever when I woke up and those usually mean you’re gonna have one bitch of a migraine,” Richard replied softly, kissing his fingers and pressing them to Schneider’s flushed cheek. “Try to go to sleep, sweetheart. I’ll make sure no one wakes you up till you’re ready to get up, okay?”

“’kay. Love you Reesh.”

::

Schneider’s migraine hadn’t let up by the time the bus pulled into Pittsburgh early the next morning. The sun was beginning to touch the tops of the highest buildings and creep through the alleyways, causing an early-morning, cool breeze to ruffle the band member’s hair as they stepped out of the bus. Schneider hissed through his clenched teeth and shoved his sunglasses on, fingers turning white on the straps of his backpack in an effort not to scream as he followed Richard and Ollie into the hotel. Once inside, he found a couch and lowered himself into it, trying to ignore the shocks of pain that half-blinded him, the auras that made him dizzy and the harsh scents of cleaning chemicals that made his nose itch and burn.

“Chris? Come on, let’s get you up to the room and back to bed,” Richard said, running a hand over Schneider’s arm to get his attention.

“Just shoot me now.”

“Nah, you’re too cute for that. Come on, sooner you get up and moving the sooner you can go back to sleep,” Richard coaxed, helping his lover to his feet. He hung on to Schneider’s t-shirt as discreetly as he could, carefully guiding him to the elevator. He’d asked Flake and Till to take care of their luggage so he could get Schneider in bed safely, and they’d nodded, sympathetic looks on their faces. The ride up to their floor was thankfully a brief and quiet one, their rooms only a short trip down the hallway. By this point, Schneider was holding Richard’s hand and tottering along behind him, the only thing keeping him mobile the promise of a soft bed in a cool, dark room.

Richard ran the card key through the reader and poked his head inside the room, gesturing for Schneider to follow him. “Stay here,” he said, pressing his partner to the wall. “I’m going to go pull all the curtains so the sunlight doesn’t make your head hurt any worse than it does already.”

“Bless you, sweetheart,” Schneider mumbled, forcing his knees to lock so he wouldn’t collapse. He let his backpack slide to the floor with a muffled ‘thud’ and leaned against the door, hoping no one would come knocking on it to see if they’d made it to their room okay.

“All right, strip down and I’ll get you settled,” Richard said, putting an arm around Schneider’s waist and guiding him into the bedroom. He helped his lover strip down to nothing but skin and maneuvered him about until he was curled on his side, pillows supporting his neck, knees and head, another ice pack tucked over his forehead. He pulled the covers up around Schneider to make a sort-of tent to shield him from any stray light, kissed the top of his head and whispered, “Sleep, _meine liebling_.”

Once he was sure Schneider was completely asleep, Richard stole out of their room and made his way to Paul’s, knocking softly on the door as not to wake any nearby guests up. The door opened a crack and Paul beckoned Richard inside, a concerned look on his usually happy, sunny face. “Did you get Schneider back to bed all right?” he asked.

“Yeah, but he’s hurting horribly,” Richard replied, slumping down onto the couch and running his hands through his hair, leaving it more disheveled that it already was. “I’m starving but I don’t want to be too far from our room in case Chris wakes up and needs me.”

“You go get something to eat, Reesh, I’ll keep an eye on him,” Paul said, tugging his e-reader out of its sleeve. “I’ll go sit and read and in case Chris wants you, I’ll call you, all right?”

Richard stood up and clumsily hugged his friend, tiredness washing over him like a tidal wave. He lost his balance for a second, making Paul grab him by his belt loops to keep him from falling. “Whoa, Reesh! You’re almost as badly off as Chris is! Call room service and I’ll sit with Chris while you get some food inside you and sleep. Okay?”

“Are you sure Paul?”

“Don’t argue with me when I’m in ‘dad’ mode,” Paul teased, helping Richard back into his seat. “We don’t need _both_ of you in the hospital.”

Richard smiled wanly and accepted the room service menu Paul handed him. “Do you want anything?” he asked.

“Nah, I'm good. I'll go keep an eye on Chris, you get something in your stomach and go to bed,” Paul replied, giving Richard's hair a tousle. Once he was gone, Richard phoned his breakfast request in and sat back on the couch, groaning as he kicked his sneakers off. He found the television remote and clicked the TV on, flipping through channels without seeing anything. He finally settled on a gardening show and turned the sound down, interested more in the background noise than anything else. He was staring out the window, seeing nothing when a gentle knock on the door drew his attention away from the view. He peeked through the spy-hole and saw Till standing on the other side, looking as rumpled and sleepy as he was.

“Come in, Till,” Richard said, stepping aside to let the singer in. Till nodded his thanks and wandered in, choosing to perch on the wide window sill to look out over the city. Room service was hot on his heels, and once that was dealt with, Richard settled back in his chair and looked over his steaming cup of coffee at his friend, who hadn't said anything more than 'thank you' when offered his own cup.

“You're still up,” Richard said, gnawing on a piece of bacon. “I figured you’d be dead to the world by now.”

“I'm worried about Chris, that's all,” Till replied, stealing a piece of bacon. “His migraines never last this long ---well, that I know of. If he's not better by this afternoon, we're calling a doctor in.”

“I agree. This one started with a fever, too. Which isn't good; the last one he had that started with a fever lasted a couple of days. I thought I was going to have to take him to the hospital but it went away on its own,” Richard replied. “I know he's got his last-ditch pain medicine with him but you know how it makes him loopy and screws his coordination to hell.”

Till sighed and rubbed his chin, callouses rasping on stubble. “Thank God Chris only has these bad ones a couple times a year. I don't know how I'd handle being in that much pain and have to do a show on top of that.”

“Well, you've done shows almost as messed up and so have I,” Richard sighed, finishing his coffee and the pile of bacon.

“And nearly got roasted too,” Till snorted, plucking a piece of toast from the pile. Richard shook his head and said, “It's a good thing I ordered for two.”

“Not like you don't do the same thing to me!” Till laughed. The two men sat talking quietly, finishing their breakfast, then Richard said, “I've got to get some sleep, Till. I hate to chase you off but if I don't go to sleep, I won't be worth shit tonight.”

“I'll check in on Chris again on my way out,” Till said, leaning over to hug Richard gently. “I stopped by your room and Paul told me you were here and not to keep you up too long.”

Richard waved over his shoulder as Till left, closing the door quietly behind him. He was awake long enough to strip out of his jeans, t-shirt and socks and clamber into bed. As he tipped over into an exhausted sleep, the last thing he thought of was that he should really get up and pull the curtains but he was out like a light before he could do anything about it.

He woke up late in the afternoon to the sound of Paul talking quietly to someone on the phone. Cracking an eye open, he caught Paul's eye and waved at him. From the sound of his voice, he had to be talking to his wife, Arielle, so Richard slithered out of bed and into his clothes. Mouthing a 'thank you' to Paul, he tiptoed out of the room and walked quickly down to the room he was to share with Schneider.

Once inside the room, he kicked his sneakers off and stole into the bedroom to check on his lover. Pausing on the threshold, he saw that Schneider was still deeply asleep, one foot sticking out from under the covers. He saw two pill bottles on the nightstand along with several empty bottles of water and one half-full one of ginger ale. Without needing to see the labels on the bottles, Richard knew Schneider had given into his migraine and taken the heavy-duty medicine that was reserved for times like this. “Poor baby,” he thought to himself, closing the door and creeping out into the living room. He settled down onto the couch with every intention on digging out the book he’d been trying to read for the past several months but sleep caught up to him again and carried him away.

“Reesh? Richard? Wake up, we need to head out for sound-check,” Ollie’s voice poked its way into Richard’s dreams. He cracked open an eye and stared up at their bass player, momentarily disoriented. “Where are we?” he groaned.

“Pittsburgh,” Ollie replied, holding a hand out for Richard to pull himself up with. “I haven’t woken Christoph up yet, do you want me to?”

“Please,” Richard replied, rubbing his eyes and forcing his brain out of ‘sleep’ mode and into ‘work’ mode. Worrying about Schneider had taken a lot out of him and adding that to being short of sleep was a bad combination. He could hear Ollie’s soft voice from the bedroom as he urged the drummer awake; he pushed himself to his feet and went into the room to see how much progress Ollie had made. Schneider was sitting up, back supported by every pillow in the room, blue-green eyes hazy and barely in focus. He smiled at Richard and said, “I’ll live. Just don’t let me wander off anywhere, I’m still so fuzzy-headed, who knows where I’ll end up?”

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Ollie said, a knowing smile on his face. “We’ll have to leave in about 45 minutes, so don’t get too involved in anything.”

Schneider returned Ollie’s smile while Richard rolled his eyes at what he’d implied. “Shoo, you nibby-nose!” he laughed. The two men waited till they heard the door click shut and then carefully pounced on each other, Schneider curled up against Richard’s chest and arms locked around him. He kissed his way up Richard’s throat, over his pointed chin and when their lips met, he gasped softly as he felt his partner’s warm hand slide around and under the waistband of his boxer briefs to grope at his behind. Despite the lingering dizziness and lightheartedness of the migraine and medications, Schneider grew hard against Richard’s thigh. And from the way Richard was ever-so-slowly rubbing against him, Schneider figured they’d both be naked and very soon.

“You know,” Richard purred against Schneider’s lips, “sex is supposed to be a wonderful way to get rid of a headache.”

“I thought you'd never ask.”


	10. Mister Self-Destruct

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _They were here. His heroes, his Gods, his inspirations. He was waiting for them with a crowd of cattle, disgusted by their smells, their voices, their presence. How dare these individuals even think they were good enough to stand in Their Presence?_

Sound-check that night was a hurried affair; one of the main equipment trucks was late in arriving which meant a large portion of the stage wasn't complete enough for even a small part of the pyro to be set up. Tempers already made short by the note they were not supposed to see along with the after-effects of Schneider’s migraine and the medicines he'd had to take, the band were snappish and on edge. Even Ollie, who was usually the calmest and voice of reason when everyone else was ill-tempered and unreasonable, sent Paul running with a growled curse over something trivial.

Richard and Schneider were curled up on a couch in their shared dressing room, the lights dim and the room quiet. Richard was gently massaging Schneider’s neck, feeling the last of the pain-caused tension begin to fade away. He'd found a tiny tube of lineament in the depths of Schneider’s bags and was carefully rubbing it in, the warmth of the combined essential oils helping to unlock tense, sore nerves and skin.

“How's that?” he whispered into Schneider’s ear.

“Wonderful,” Schneider replied as he relaxed into Richard's arms. “I think the mint and eucalyptus oil might wake me up too; I'm still a bit groggy.”

“The nausea any better?” Richard said, smoothing his fingers over Schneider’s bare shoulders as he ended the massage. “I can get you some more ginger ale if you need it.”

“It’s gone, thank heaven,” Schneider murmured, turning around in his lover’s embrace to rest his head against Richard’s warm, strong shoulder. “Of course the medicine to stop _that_ makes me groggy, so I’m screwed coming and going.”

Richard forced himself not to laugh at Schneider’s commentary; instead, he pulled the blanket he’d snitched from their hotel room up over them, tucking it under his lover’s chin and snuggling him close. “We’ve got an hour or so before we have to start getting dressed,” he said. “Why don’t you nap and I’ll keep you company?”

“That’s the best idea you’ve had today,” Schneider murmured, closing his eyes and burrowing deeper into the blanket. Within moments, he was deeply asleep, black eyelashes like delicate feathers against his pale skin. Richard smiled down at him and closed his eyes, not quite sleepy enough to drift off but tired enough that the peace and quiet that surrounded them let him drift off into a light drowse.

A quiet knock on the dressing room door woke him an hour later; Till poked his head around the door and whispered, “Reesh? Chris? Wakey-wakey time.”

Schneider’s eyes fluttered open but were slow to focus. Till frowned and crossed the room to kneel down next to the couch and stare into his eyes. “Schneider? Are you still having trouble with your migraine?”

Richard, who had woke up the moment Till had knocked on the door, sat up in alarm, almost dumping Schneider on the floor. “Baby? Are you all right?” he asked, sweat breaking out on his skin.

“I'm okay,” Schneider muttered, slowly sitting up and knuckling his eyes. “I'll be okay once I'm up and moving.”

“Your eyes don't want to focus,” Till said, helping Schneider to his feet then doing the same for Richard. “Are you sure about this? We can hold the show awhile, let you sleep a bit longer.”

Schneider pulled a can of energy drink out of the tiny fridge in the corner of the room and drank it in one long swallow. He shook his head and whistled, saying, “That'll wake the dead. Don't fuss, Till. You're giving Reesh the collywobbles.”

Till snorted and patted Schneider on the shoulder, carefully. “Sorry. I'll leave you two alone to get ready. And _no_ last minute nookie, either.”

“You, my friend, are absolutely no fun,” Richard sighed, stretching like a cat and yawning. “We'll behave.”

“After the show, all bets are off,” Schneider laughed as he tugged his t-shirt off and began digging through his wardrobe case for his stage gear. Till made a face and said over his shoulder as he left the room, “I really, really didn't need to hear that, Schneider.”

“You live for us to torment you,” Richard laughed, throwing his socks at the door and their singer's retreating back. Till's snort-laugh was cut short by the door closing, leaving the two men in peace to get dressed. As he was lacing up his boots, Schneider stood up with a hiss, pressing his fingertips into his temples. Richard looked up from where he was pulling his own boots on and saw Schneider try to disguise his pained expression. “You _aren't_ feeling better,” he said, abandoning his boots and crossing the room to stare into Schneider’s eyes. They were still partially dilated, while blue circles stood out starkly against his suddenly-pale skin. “Let me go track Till down...”

“Damn it, no, Reesh. It was just a tiny little pain spike, nothing big. I'll take a couple aspirin once I'm done getting dressed,” Schneider grumbled, gently taking Richard's hands and pressing a kiss on the backs. He leaned in and kissed Richard deep and long, sliding his hands up into his lover's dark hair and mussing the strands up even more than they already were. Once they parted, he sighed, “You're the best medicine in the world, my heart.”

Richard shook his head and smiled at Schneider. “I do my best,” he said, folding his lover into his arms and holding him as if he was made of glass. “Promise me, if you start feeling worse you'll let me know.”

“Promise. Now, as much as I like standing here in your arms, we do need to finish dressing,” Schneider said, reluctantly freeing himself from Richard's embrace. He turned away quickly enough for Richard not to see another wince of pain cross his face; he palmed two aspirin and half of his extra-strength pain pills and swallowed them with a mouthful of flat ginger ale. By the time the band were making their way to the stage, his migraine had abated somewhat, but now he could see rainbow “halos” around everything, and there was an odd sort of darkness around the edges of his vision.

“Shit, shit, _shit,_ ” he muttered to himself. He hadn't had the halos and loss of vision in a long, long time, and tonight was not the night for any of that to happen. Hoping that the crash he was headed for would wait till after the show, Schneider gritted his teeth, settled his in-ear monitors in place and sat down behind his kit. He'd done shows in worse condition and was damned if he'd let a headache he should have taken care of earlier screw the show up.

::

_They were here. His heroes, his Gods, his inspirations. He was waiting for them with a crowd of cattle, disgusted by their smells, their voices, their presence. How dare these individuals even think they were good enough to stand in Their Presence?_

_He leaned against the wall and shamelessly eavesdropped on a conversation going on near him. Two young women, both dressed in the uniform of a whore, were discussing Schneider and Richard's relationship. “They broke a thousand hearts when they came out and said they were lovers,” the taller of the two said. “I was kind of upset at first but they seem so happy together.”_

_“Yeah, but I've heard there's been some assholes picking their shows because they're lovers,” the shorter woman said. “I guess one of the crew got booted early on because he shot his mouth off in front of Till. Guy's lucky he didn't end up smeared across the room; Till was supposedly white-hot pissed off.”_

_“Lucky and stupid. Oh well, I'm glad to be here and able to say hello and congratulations,” the tall woman said, pulling a CD cover out of her purse along with a silver marker. “Come on, the line's moving.”_

_He didn't want to wait any longer but he had no choice. With a top-to-toe shiver of anticipation, he followed the cattle into the large, echoing room, eyes locked on the door across the way. Soon, they would see his greatness, appreciate the offerings he'd given and compliment him on his skills._

_They had to._

_::_

Flake was the first to notice how pale Schneider had become over the course of the evening. He'd looked over at their drummer during a somewhat-quiet part of the show and saw him grimace and bite down on one of his drumsticks, obviously in pain. Even in the odd, green light coming from the lighting truss above the stage, Flake could see the dark circles under Schneider’s eyes and the way he seemed to be almost a second off beat from everyone else. Frowning slightly, he caught Paul's eye and mouthed, “Keep an eye on Schneider and don't tell Reesh.” Paul nodded and looked over his shoulder to get his own look at their drummer. Alarm flashed in his eyes as he looked back at Flake; both of them knew without speaking that Schneider wasn't out of the woods yet with his migraine. When the show ended and the band stepped to the front of the stage to take their final bows, Paul made sure he was on Schneider’s left side to catch him if he started to fall. He caught Richard’s attention and pointed in Schneider’s direction, mouthing, “Still sick.”

Richard bit his lip, barely managing to keep the sly, Cheshire cat smile he was known for on his face even when he wanted to smack Schneider stupid for hiding that he was still not feeling well. Once the band was backstage, however, all bets were off. He casually backed his lover into a corner and hissed in an undertone, “Sweetie, you said you were feeling better. Obviously you’re not.”

“Don’t fuss, please,” Schneider pleaded. “Let’s get through this meet and greet and I promise you I’ll go right to bed. All right?”

Richard sighed, muttered something uncomplimentary and said, “All right. But the second you start turning green, your ass is headed for bed. Got me?”

Schneider nodded, being careful not to move too much and encourage the halos or the creeping darkness at the edge of his vision. He knew if he told Richard about _that_ , he’d be in the emergency room before he could blink. While he loved having a partner who would fuss over him and spoil him rotten, there were times that it was irritating, and this was one of those times.

As the small crowd of fans filed through the meeting room set aside for the meet and greet, the hair began to stand up on the back of Richard’s neck. He sneaked glances at the crowd every chance he got, wondering what in the world had set him off. He took a long drink of water from the water bottle on the table behind him, hoping it would settle his nerves, but the longer he stood there, the more nervous he became. The line of fans began to slow to a trickle and he was eager to get out of the building and take Schneider back to their hotel when he heard his lover yelp in pain. Startled, he turned to see what had happened and saw a rail-thin, sallow-skinned man about his age hauling Schneider across the room, a wicked looking knife poised at his throat.

Any other time, Schneider would have been more than capable in getting rid of an over-eager fan, but when Richard looked up and saw his eyes, he knew why he couldn’t. They were completely unfocused, their green-blue depths blank and unseeing---the sign that Schneider’s migraine had gotten to the point where his ability to see was gone. He’d only seen this happen a couple of times during the years he’d known Schneider and while it had been thankfully temporary, remembering the utter fear that he’d never be able to see again made Richard’s heart break at the same time woke a scarlet rage in his veins. How dare this… _person_ …even dare to lay a finger on his beloved, much less put a knife to his throat!

“Schneider!” Till yelled, throwing himself forward, only to be stopped by the stranger’s shouting, “Don’t! I won’t hurt him if I don’t have to. I don’t _want_ to. But I need to say something, I need to show you something.” He glared at the five security guards standing ready to drag him off to be handed over to the police and said, “You won’t have time to blink before I can slit his pretty throat. Stand down.”

Ollie and Paul took Till’s arms and pulled him back, struggling the entire time to keep him from breaking free and attempting to rescue their drummer. Richard hadn’t moved a muscle but even so, Flake reached over and took a firm grip on his arms, murmuring, “For the love of every god you ever heard of, _do not move_. Don’t even blink.”

Schneider, who had frozen at the touch of cold, sharp steel at his throat, finally realized that the darkness he was staring into wasn’t his imagination. While the pain in his head had lessened a tiny bit, it hadn’t let up despite the medicines he’d taken before the show and now the nerves that were tormented by the pain were so inflamed, they’d shut down his ability to see. Panic gelled in his stomach and made cold sweat begin to trickle down his hairline; he hadn’t had a blindness spell in several years and it terrified him. What if this time his optic nerve was somehow damaged and he was left blind forever? Would Richard stay with him or leave, unable to live with a handicapped partner?

“What do you want?” Richard said in a voice tight with anger and an edge of madness. “If you hurt him, I swear to God you won’t walk out of here.”

“I’m sorry, Richard, I truly am. I just don’t know any other way to make you see what you are. You’re gods. You’re so far removed from mortals…I _worship_ you. I have done things to show you my devotion. I left your mark on my gifts so all could see this!”

Paul growled softly and Till echoed him. Ollie got a better grip on their singer’s arm and said, “What…what things? You aren’t…you’re the serial killer that’s been stalking our fans. You killed five innocent people…why?”

The knife-wielding stranger stepped back against the wall, pulling Schneider with him. Adjusting his grip on the knife and Schneider’s arms, he said, “Those people…those _cattle_ …were my offerings to you. Their lives mean nothing. I wanted to show you how clever I am, so I took my inspiration from the videos. Don’t you see? They didn’t know the first thing about devotion, about respect. All they care about is getting a picture, an autograph, or maybe a tumble in bed. I can overlook your mortal failings, especially the sin of two men lying together as a man and woman should. You’re divine creatures living in mortal flesh.”

 All six band members were horrified to their very bones. They had fans in the past who were deluded, overenthusiastic, and a couple who were not right in the head, but never anything like this. Tension began to build in the room as the killer ranted and raved, the hand that held the knife to Schneider’s throat beginning to shake. Richard closed his eyes, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that it wouldn’t be much longer before the madman’s hand slipped and he would end Schneider’s life without thinking. He bit back tears as he looked upon the face of the man he loved beyond anything and prayed to a God he wasn’t sure existed that if Schneider was going to die, it would be quick. And he knew as well that the moment Schneider’s heart stopped beating, he would do anything to follow him into death. Choking back a sob, Richard closed his eyes, gripping Flake’s hand and prepared himself for the worst.

 A sound like someone breaking a bunch of celery in two stopped the killer’s speech cold. He went from screeching to screaming, shoving Schneider from him to grasp at his nose, which was canted off to the side and pouring blood. Schneider tumbled forward and was caught up in Paul’s arms; he handed the drummer off to Richard and rushed the injured serial killer alongside Till and Ollie. They had the man down on the floor before the security guards could do more than blink, Paul was yelling at the top of his lungs that if he moved, there wouldn’t be enough of him left to put in a bucket, Till was standing on the man’s wrists and glaring down at him, and Ollie was kneeling on his ankles to keep him from standing up. The security guards finally realized what was going on and hustled to put the man in handcuffs to be turned over to the local sheriff and then to the FBI. He screamed his insane rhetoric even as he was pulled away, his voice echoing off the cinder-block walls; _“You don’t understand! I did all of this for you! There would have been more, so many more! Please, you have to believe me…”_

Paul guided Schneider to a nearby couch, clinging to his hands even as Richard tried to pry them loose. He ran questing fingers over the drummer’s curls, saying, “Damn, but you’ve got a hard head. That was a good move, Schneider, bashing him in the nose. And you don’t have a bump!” Schneider didn’t hear a word; he was too busy flailing around in his darkness to find Richard’s hands. When they touched, he pulled free of Paul’s grasp and buried his face in Richard’s shoulder, shaking like a leaf. The two men clung to one another, Richard’s silent tears sliding down his face and soaking Schneider’s hair. They said nothing, simply hung on to each other while the security force cleared the room, leaving the band behind to comfort their friends, their brothers.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Richard sighed, sliding his hands up to cradle his sweetheart’s face and press shaky kisses to his lips. “If that freak had hurt you, I was prepared to kill him with my bare hands. And if he…he…”

“Shhh,” Schneider whispered, returning Richard’s kisses. “He didn’t, and I’m here. It’s okay Reesh, I’ll be all right….”

“But…but you can’t see!” Richard whimpered, resting his forehead against his lover’s and trying to force back the tears that wouldn’t stop falling no matter how hard he tried.

“Ollie got one of the production assistants to call over to the hospital; last I heard they wanted you in the trauma center ten minutes ago, Schneider,” Till said, sliding an arm around Richard’s shoulders and laying a gentle hand on the drummer’s cheek. “We won’t leave you alone, either of you.”

“Thank you Tillchen,” Schneider sighed, curling back up against Richard’s shoulder and closing his eyes. “I can see shadows, a little bit. Doesn’t mean that I’m not going to the emergency room, so don’t fuss.”

“That’s our job,” Flake said as he reached over to pat Schneider and Richard on the shoulders. “And I for one, do it quite well.”

::

Twenty-four hours later, the band were headed to their next tour stop, Schneider well over his temporary blindness and armed with a new migraine medicine that worked a lot better than the old one he’d taken for years. The story about what had happened backstage had been kept under wraps until the band left Pittsburgh, as well as the news of Schneider’s needing to be hospitalized long enough for the trauma doctor to look him over and prescribe the new medicine.

However, the wall of silence wasn’t made to last, and in the afternoon, the band were engrossed in reading or napping when the news hit the Internet and news outlets. Paul was the first to find out; he had been paging through the news when he saw a blurb about a serial killer being arrested in Pittsburgh and that the killings had been inspired by their videos. He swore mightily, which brought the rest of the band to their feet and peering over his shoulder.

“As if we needed something else to fuck our reputation sideways,” Richard muttered. “Wonder how long it’ll be before we’re banned all over the Eastern Seaboard?”

“Thankfully whoever wrote the press release made sure to make us the victims,” Till said, sitting down beside Paul and accepting his laptop so he could get a better look at the story. “They really dug up some dirt on this guy too. And I thought I’d seen or read it all by now. I’m not going to be sleeping so well for the next few nights.”

Schneider, who had been deeply asleep when Paul’s swearing woke him up, shuddered and made his way back to the bunk he and Richard shared. Curling up in the still-warm blankets, he tried to put the memory of being blind, helpless and terrified out of his mind, tried to stop seeing the mutilated bodies, the list of the serial killer’s background, name, and other personal information. Tried to stop seeing his emaciated, yellow-toothed grin and hearing his rough voice as he babbled out his mad beliefs. But it didn’t work. He buried his face in the pillows and cried softly, not even stopping when Richard discovered him gone and found him in their bed. Held tight in his lover’s embrace, Schneider cried himself to sleep, not knowing that Richard did as well.

It would be a long time before any of them would be back to normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is the end. Thank you all for reading, leaving kudos and comments. It means so much to me!

**Author's Note:**

> This one has been simmering away in my “Ideas” folder since Samhain. Thanks to an article about “The World’s Deadliest Garden” http://www.smithsonianmag.com/travel/step-inside-worlds-most-dangerous-garden-if-you-dare-180952635/?no-ist and watching way too many episodes of “Law and Order” and those horrible crime shows you see on “Lifetime TV,” I finally got the ideas I needed to get this going. Oh, and “Murder By Numbers” from The Police. I played that song FAR too much while researching poisons.


End file.
